Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Hero Complex

Something's missing here. Whether of dream or nightmare, I cannot tell, but it feels that there is something crucial missing, and that it is being shown to me in the night, dancing tantalisingly before my eyes, my eyelids trapping it in sleep, only to release it with the arrival of the morning. I awake, groping for that feeling, for what seems like it should be there, only to find that it is not, and that the feeling was only in my head.

Along with that came a startling realisation. I find that I always fall for the people who need a saviour; it may take me a lifetime to like them, but in one second that they show vulnerability, they have me - I'm theirs. Naturally such a destructive thing would happen to me. I do not hate it, but it has made me realise that the hardest thing that I will face in this lifetime is not saving people, or loving people, but distinguishing those I love out of love, and those I love out of the compulsion to help them. Only one is true love and I must be able to identify it before I am thrown into something where I am constantly being tugged upon to assist and being fed more heartache than it is worth. I must be on guard, for I must learn to distinguish those I love from the rest; such a momentous task for one who has always thought they were in love with the person they in fact only had the compulsion to save.

It's a recurring pattern in my life; my heart always aches after someone a little more when I have seen the tears streaking down their face. The fact is, I can't be held by that anymore. I can't love you only because you're vulnerable, I need to love you despite your vulnerability.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Before the Dawn

Do you stand in the middle of the highway, staring out to the horizon, wondering how the fuck you got there? The black tarmac laughs at you, smearing against the landscape, the same colour of the smear of darkness on your heart; an ugly scar on something that would have been so beautiful. Like Orpheus you cannot look back, or you may lose everything you want, everything you walk towards hiding just beyond the horizon; look back and you just may remember me. I am that black scar, that thing which you wish didn't happen, but did. Remember the pain as you carved it into your own heart?

Run, run, run faster, feet pounding asphalt, breath ragged, desperate, try outrun the past that dogs your steps. Poor fool. The memory remains, no matter how far you run. The sky will rain pins, each one piercing your skin as you flee, each one bringing back the pain, the fire. You will remember me inside you, in that place reserved only for me, and you will cry, the tears will hew their path down your cheeks and you will bleed red like the sun. Grind your teeth, run faster, wish harder, hope for some miracle cure. This time your arrogance cost you everything.

There's music in the setting sun that you run towards, as it bleeds across the sky and seeps beneath that horizon. It's that sound which sometimes flicks a switch within you, makes you want to want me, and you give in, so enticing is the sound. You open your arms and welcome me, take me in, breathe me, taste me, touch me, lie there while I rape your senses. Oh remember how you welcomed it, revelled even, now too afraid to even look at the shame that is me. You aren't as good as they believe, as you want to believe. Your soul is as dirty as worst, despite its pristine surface. Don't let them too close, be afraid, they might see through you.

Excruciating, isn't it, this reminder of mine? I won't fade, won't disappear. I'm the dark side of you, and you will give in to me, you know it. You want to - I can feel it when I make you writhe; you don't want me to leave, but you're afraid of who you'll be if I stay. My presence is the best torture and the worst pleasure. It's time for you to choose a side; you cannot indulge in both forever. This is the reason why you wake before the dawn each day.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Where Angels Fear to Tread

I don't even think I can explain this feeling. It was always more than simply looking at a picture and liking it, but more of a looking at a picture and feeling your breath get sucked out of you, followed by a feeling in your chest that this, this place, wherever it may be, was where you belonged, where you literally longed to be.

I dream of the place with water so clean and clear that it reflects the azure sky perfectly, adopting a luminescence that only these places can. I dream of gliding along that water, safe among the towering cliffs, with moss and vines and small bushes clinging to their faces. Even still, the boat does not rock, so calm and glass-like is the water, undisturbed but for the ripples caused by the ever slightly moving boat. If the air is hot, then the water is cool, a haven amongst the tropical weather patterns, wiping clean the sweat and the dirt, and bringing not only cleanliness, but also a sense of the spiritual. Here there is that connection to the higher realm, for here is where it is clean and tranquil and secluded, a secret place away from the rest of mankind. You must be able to touch that other realm whilst enveloped by the natural, for it is nigh impossible in the concrete jungles of skyscrapers and cars and millions of strangers, permanently stained by the dirt.

In your ears gently roars the sound of gushing water, dropping off some high precipice and crashing down below upon the surface of the turquoise pool. This sound, the only one, is the breath of life and it infuses you with calm and the ability to see beauty, so that you notice the exact colours of the water, the textures of the cliffs, the patterns of the growing plants. You realise that here is life, and that here, everything is much more alive than there in the sprawling urban landscape from whence you originated; even the cliffs, solid rock as they are, seem to hum with the song of the earth, while the waterfall and the trees seem to accompany it, each with their unique sounds.

My heart aches for it, as though to be reunited with a lost part of myself, from many eons ago. To drink its beauty, even once in this short lifetime would be akin to being caressed by the gentlest and most caring of lovers, who with one certain stroke could kindle a blazing passion within. It would truly be returning home. Here, in this place, even the angels fear to tread, for they have nothing more to offer it; it outstrips them in its radiant beauty, its heartaching wonder, and its secluded spirituality.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Of The Poet

Dear friend, you've gone, disappeared amongst the dead leaves. I cast the pen aside, left it rolling on the table, across the marked paper, having left its final stains in my little book. It had captured its last verse, its last fantastic image, its last soothing rhythm, and they lay enclosed within the frail pages in that book which is a memory of the past, done and gone.

You did not die, you evolved, taking a different form, but one so utterly different from your original, that it is thought that you have indeed died. I miss you sometimes, dear friend. No longer do we sit and muse on a great deal many things, no longer do we pen the thoughts of our darkened minds, for we have turned our imaginations to other pursuits. I cannot sit alone amid a crowd with my tiny notebook on my lap, pen in hand, ready to capture and weave into words the thread of the imagination, the string of emotion; it is not the same without you. The words do not form, the imagination does not fly and all is still on the surface of the mind, that impenetrable barrier. The vision of lonely romance, of beautiful seclusion, of a spiritual tranquility has since vanished, and I miss it.

The lesson's been taught old friend: not all those who are meant to write are destined to become poets.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Of The Dreamer

I hope to be taught a great many things in this life. I hope to find a teacher of whose attentions I am worthy. I hope to find a teacher patient, understanding, willing and forgiving, for I know that I will drift on more than one occasion; such is the habit of the dreamer.

I hope to be taught passion, of how it seeps forth from beneath the doors of the most unlikely edifice in the form of music; wild, unrestrained, almost demonic, but nearer heavenly, music. If indeed the devil played the fiddle, I should like to hear his song; the master of the fire must surely be the master of the passion. Is that not why he is feared?

I hope to be taught love, of how it takes one in its vice grip and never relinquishes that hold; that grip which while so fierce is yet also gentle, so that even the most fragile of flowers are merely caressed and never broken. Many a time people claim that they have been left fragmented due to love's restraining hold, but in truth, it is only because the hand unfurled somewhat and the person slipped through, falling out of love's grip to shatter into shards on the face of the earth below. But all risk breaking, for who does not entice what they fear?

Yet there are things I long for which cannot be taught. I desire to leap into the scattered stars and catch the moon on my tongue while it gazes from the velvet sky, have its liquid light slip down my throat, soothing as it goes, and settle at my core, in that safe place within my chest. I would like its silvery coolness to gather and set me aglow from within, so that I may shine with the beauty of the night and the warmth of guidance.

We must sit and contemplate all that we desire. We must impart those secrets or they may never weave themselves into the fabric of reality. And we must pray and hope and wish with every fibre of our beings that those dreams do not waste away and die, for none are saddest but those who have buried a portion of themselves.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Sweet Escape

It must be nice to drift off into another world where someone else has worse problems than you, all of which are miraculously fixed by the end of the journey. There are adventures within words, and worlds within pages, people among the individual letters; all of this, bound and sown together, littering the globe in the form of a handsome volume.

Sometimes the world feels too small, and that the walls are crushing, closing in and suffocating you, even as you stare out the window into the wider world. Claustrophobia takes hold, and as your breath becomes ragged, you do the best thing you can do to calm yourself: you pick up a book. There you can lose yourself and live several lifetimes, with the wisdom of the writer being imparted upon you. It's not the same as living, but sometimes it can be infinitely more thrilling.

It is true that there are only few stories in the world, and you begin to notice eventually that many outcomes are the same. However, it must be said that it is not the final destination which matters, it is the journey; the same can be said of novels: the ending does not matter, it is the words that got you there that are important. People craft sentences specific to them, so that they are unique. Those words are the ones which tug at your intuition, or pull at your heartstrings, or work the muscles of your face into a smile. And that is why they are significant, it is why the art of writing will never lose style, and why books will never be out of fashion.

There is no better way of escaping the harshness of reality than losing one's self in a novel, in another place, another world, another time.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Bridge of Sighs

We shouldn't define our world in black and white. Too often this is not the case. You will learn that nothing is ever as clear cut as you wanted to think it was, so don't make the mistake of thinking that everything can be sorted into two very separate categories. If you look a little closer, you will find that there are vast areas of grey, the shades which indicate how close something is to a category, while still mockingly being in neither.

Most of our decisions lie in that grey area, and barely ever are they clearly defined. We tend to overthink things, to find reasons for and reasons against, and we take the option with the more reasons, sometimes at the cost of ignoring our instincts. In the end, it is fear that stops us; the fear that going against the grain, against all reason will lead us somewhere worse than where we are. We know deep down that there is a chance that it could lead to something better, but we are too afraid to take the chance, especially as so many things in life are constantly in flux. We are afraid of getting there and losing what we wanted so much.

Often we'll meet someone or read something where a person did not take the chance that they so badly wanted and ended up regretting that decision for the rest of their lives. There is much wisdom in words saying that you will regret what you didn't do much more than the things that you did do. But humans are not so trusting creatures, and we are wary of life, even when we want to believe that it can turn out for the best.

So, take a chance on me, and I'll take a chance on you. Dispel the fear, don't weigh up the pros and cons, just follow your instinct. We're instinctual creatures, and you'll be surprised at how often your intuition is correct. Next time, take a chance on that stranger whose eye you meet, or that person you shared a smile with. You never know, after crossing that bridge of sighs, upon which you swayed precariously, unsure of yourself, you may find yourself in a place where the grass is really greener. You may find that the world not only is not black and white, but is in fact made up of splashes of colour. What was once scary may no longer hold any fear at all.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Foreign Language

As far as things go, the truth is always the most foreign to the tongue, the most difficult to pronounce, as the words drip and slither off your tongue into another dimension, and the words you say are the ones you know will be back to haunt you, but not in the way you'd wished.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

The Chore

I can honestly say that I didn't miss this at all. Sorry, but that's the truth.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

An Empty Place

She barely understood the feeling which had settled upon her. She sat alone, away from the prying eyes of the world, in a place frequented by none but the rats, a place, abandoned, secret, safe. There among the concrete walls, the empty windows, she bent her head and sighed, that forsaken girl who couldn't find her place.

It's not that she was a stranger to the places she visited, to the people she spoke to, but still she felt as though she was an outsider, looking at a life she led, created by someone else and lived by someone she didn't recognise, despite how they looked like her. And no one saw through the plastered smile on her face, to the loneliness and vulnerability below; they shook her hand, they laughed with her, they all looked, but no one saw.

She came to this secret place, where she could be alone, left to her thoughts, and guarded by the trees, and the concrete walls. She'd lost someone once, and though this was not the source of her sadness, sometimes the memories would tear through her, and rip open the wounds once more; she would bleed and she could cry and scream and wish that she hadn't lost them, so that they might come and make it better, the way they always used to. Nostalgia washes over her, and she cannot escape, though she struggles and tells herself that it's all in the past and for good reason.

Other times she cries for almost no reason at all; tears run down her cheeks, hot, and she doesn't even fight them, just lets them go from her eyes, and hopes to find a reason for them. Most times there is nothing. She finds that she cannot say what she wishes to say, for fear of shattering decorum, for fear of not doing her emotions justice; for fear of sounding stupid. She soon realises that although she has never left her family, she's lived alone all her life.

She returns to this spot, every time the melancholy feeling takes hold, and just sits there with her thoughts and the voice which runs in her head. Sometimes she walks away with determination, other times with depression, but sometimes, just sometimes, she walks away proud of her place in the world. She realises that for someone, the world would be a much lonelier place without her.

Friday, November 12, 2010

What Are You Thinking Of?

Sometimes I'd like to know what's on your mind. Occasionally you go silent, and disappear off the map for a while, and I wonder where you go to. It's interesting to speculate, but speculation never got anyone anywhere; all it brought was frustration. I'm not going to ask for answers, I won't even ask questions, for I respect you too much for that. Distance is something that we should afford one another. If it's something you want to say, you will come around to saying it when you are ready.

That doesn't stop me from wondering, and even sometimes wishing that I could penetrate the fortress of your mind, to see the cogs and wheels and gears turning, and indeed, what they are crunching between their teeth; what it is that keeps them turning for so long. I want to be able to help you when you lose yourself in your own world. I want to know why sometimes you lock yourself away from me; I miss you when you're gone. Mind reading would be a gift on occasions - sometimes it seems like the only way that I'll know what goes on in that head of yours.

And maybe then that tiny voice within me will stop its incessant question of, "are you thinking of me?"

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Making the Most of Every Situation

Let me tell you something: what you're feeling now, it passes. If you're lucky, you may never feel it again, but let's be realistic, this is life we're talking about. Take the bad, you need it to show you the good when it comes along, and it will come along again, to be sure; endless days of light, where the warm breeze dances around you and your eyes close in content, even days of ice, huddled around the warmth with those dearest to you, sharing laughs and stories and good conversation.

You're not always going to remember what happened to make you feel this way, what you are going to remember is what you felt, and how you dealt with it. Did you let it bore holes through your innards, like some potent acid, or did you accept it, then unfurl your clenched fist to release it into the ether? Yes, those emotions will come again, and again you will have to make the decision, but what you may take into account is that it will never be the same thing which causes it; consider the bad emotions as part of the experience, without them, there would be no experience. You must experience grief to revel in joy. They don't lie when they say that the secret is to always find the silver lining, and though sometimes it may blend well with the grey of the cloud, it is present, waiting for you to discover.

You could take a sad song and make it better, or you could ride out the wave of melancholy on the notes of that song, until eventually it pulls you under and you drown. The truth is, eventually, you're going to have to pull yourself out of it.

However, if that wave breaks, and leaves you in pieces along the shoreline, I promise that I will be there to pick you up and put you back together, every last piece. And I'll stay with you until all the wounds heal, and even afterwards, because you are worth every second spent on you. Eventually, you'll start to find the silver lining without help, and my presence will become redundant, but until then, be assured that you could never be rid of me.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Oh you with the emotions expressed by your eyes, what would life be without you? You're warm and soft and a comforter when no one else notices that something's wrong. You're crazy, running up and down the small space at a hundred miles per hour, and we, watching, fear that you'll not be able to stop in time, and run headfirst into the door, or the wall. But you manage to stop, every time.

Oh you with the endless minutes of scratching; at yourself, at things, at the door, waiting to be let in. And who could deny you? You stop when we look at you, our eyes meet, and you with those big inviting eyes, and the ears slightly pulled back in hope, stare, waiting, and then our will gives way and you bound inside, tail wagging in triumph. Yes, you know the way to the heart, you clever thing.

Now you've done yourself wrong, and you lie on the rug, head resting on paws, and your eyes close in fatigue. But not all is good, despite your unchanged behaviour; still you perk your head up at the jingle of keys, or the mention of a walk, and still you bound to the door, and dart between our legs, more deftly than a butterfly among leaves, but there is physical evidence to say that all is not well. You've done something to yourself and we cannot fathom what.

It is true that I worry unnecessarily on occasion, and I hope this is the case this time, because as resolutely as I said that you would be ok, my heart said it with less certainty and with more hope. Others have survived worse, I'm sure, but the problem lies in that we do not know what you have done. All I know is that should you sleep tonight, I hope that you awake on the morrow. Our souls cannot exist in the unnerving quiet which would descend without your presence.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Timeline of Eternity

 Calmness pervades the air, settling down and covering everything like a blanket of snow. A meditative stillness overcomes you and you sit, cross legged on the grass, with your eyes closed and your mind open. You almost hear the earth whispering to you, the ancient tales thought lost, erased by time and dimmed by the voices which faded. There on the grass, alone and lonely, but content, you forge a connection with people long forgotten, with cultures long buried and with the earth, long ignored.

In one moment, you feel your whole existence in the grand scheme of all existence; you feel your place among the ancients and your memory among those who will live. Yet you do not feel insignificant; the feeling overwhelms you and is like nothing felt before, but where others would be dismayed at such a small role in the universe, you revel in the fact that there is a role at all, that your presence, fleeting though it may be, has an impact on the present, leaves traces in the future, and is a connection to the past.

It is soothing to feel this connection, as you feel yourself part of the timeline that is the history of humanity. Few manage to experience such a thing. The blades of grass feel the way they have always felt and the earth smells the way it will always smell, the comforting scent of its dampness wafting into your lungs, reminding you that you too are part of it. The trees rustle their leaves in the breeze, and that breeze caresses you, carrying to you the voices from all time - millions of faint whispers, inaudible independently, together creating a quiet melody.

The moment seems to last forever, as you take a glimpse into eternity and are gently reminded of the ancient past, of civilisations fallen, and of those which will rise. For you, this bond will never be severed, and though it will fade into the background, it will always envelop your heart, soothing it when nothing else is able. Until the end of your days you will carry with you the past, the future and the present.

You open your eyes and the scenery invokes a stronger sense of calm. Then you remember, you had an idea before you slipped into time, but it has since left, melted by the rain which beats gently upon you and the earth, cleansing all which needs to be cleansed. From then on, you remember to listen to the rain.

Sunday, November 7, 2010


I really do wonder if wings grow back from the wounds. Will it hurt as much as tearing them out? Will it hurt as much as realising you can no longer fly? Will it be the same?

Will you still be able to fly if they do grow back?

Saturday, November 6, 2010

The Lonely Are Overlooked

Well I know I ain't perfect. Who can even pretend to be? Although we don't pretend to be perfect, we pretend to be happy. We ignore every goddamn slander against ourselves, we keep ourselves together when we most feel like breaking apart, waiting until we're all alone to let it out. And then it's too late, the anger, the hurt, it's all overwhelmed us, and all we feel like doing it striking the hard wall with balled fists, over and over, till we feel the bones break and the blood seep through the torn skin.

No one ever hears us scream because we never let it out. We keep so many things caged within us, too afraid to fight, to afraid to let all our emotions show. Sometimes it's because we cannot take the feeling of imprisonment, sometimes because we can't bear the thought of not being able to tell someone that we love them, other times because the world never fucking seems to go right. We just sit and hope that something, anything decides to turn our luck in our favour.

Well, let me tell you something. It ain't going to happen. No one is going to come to your rescue, so stop fucking waiting. Stop sitting with your head hanging low, with the tears seeping from beneath your eyelids while you sit in the dark and try not to scream, try not to go on a homicidal rampage. Stop hoping for a change if you're not going to bother to bring it about.

You sit in your heartache and wait for someone to come and wipe away the tears, to whisper reassurances, to banish the loneliness and despair which sit with you as companions. No one is going to come. Your pity party isn't going to get you the change you want. Even those you thought you could count on have disappeared, and those who you were taught to think would always be there, well they are not only the problem, but are also completely oblivious to your problems. The reason people become completely independent is because they are the ones who realise that no one else gives a shit.

The lonely don't choose to become lonely. They are lonely because they can't stand the world disappointing them one more time. They can't bear to lose everything all over again, so they forsake it. Perhaps they are the wisest of all because they will never again have to go through the pain and disappointment of realising that they are unloved, that no one cares, and that people are only going to let you down.

I joined their ranks a long time ago. For a moment, just a moment, I thought that maybe I could forsake loneliness, that I could actually live in happiness, and nothing would bring that down. Alas, not the case. Loneliness is my oldest friend, and as it seems, the most dependable. The only thing it's bad at is consoling you when you want to punch something till it's bruised, broken and bleeding. Because it reminds you that you are someone who is bruised, broken and bleeding.

Maybe it's this way because we are afraid of love. Well, that's how it seems, we know. The truth is, we're afraid of abandonment. It's not the commitment we fear, but feeling of being alone after all in the end. It's the fear of letting someone in because once they are inside, they have the ability to break you beyond recovery. We're all that way because it's happened to each and every one of us; by different people at different times, but it's happened. And then, life stopped progressing. We are held in stasis because the world taught us that the only ones we should trust are ourselves.

There aren't enough patient or understand people in the world to teach us otherwise. There aren't enough people who could love us enough that we could change our deepest fears. There aren't enough people who could be bothered to try. Even less are the people who are strong enough to stick it out.

It's no wonder death seems like the best option most of the time.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Keep Moving

Damn it, you came back and stabbed me again just when I thought I was done with you. For once I thought that maybe I could not run into you, not have to try desperately to stop my eyes from being drawn to you, but no, being my life, this was not the case. But damn it, I thought I'd left you behind.

Is the world really so small that we must keep meeting? I would rather avoid you. If I don't see you, perhaps I can move on. Sometimes I hate you, sometimes I love you; recently, I've missed you. But I'm not going to take today as a sign, because I want nothing more than to let go. For someone who has always been able to let things go easily, I'm finding you very difficult to release. Except I thought I had. Until today.

Oh, you still have be bound and chained and you don't know it. The only difference is that this time, I'm slowly breaking the chains. I'm almost free; I can almost grasp the freedom, so tangible it is. So if today was a set up, and I'm almost self absorbed enough to believe that you orchestrated it perfectly so that you'd be there when you knew I would be, then that's it, stop it. You can't have me anymore. You had me once, you lost me. For both our sakes, our sanity, we need to keep moving. Stop and we lose our balance. So I'll keep going, even if it means leaving you behind; I've done it once, I can do it again.

Sometimes I think that my happiness lies with you, but I know, I have to carve out my own life now. I might let you in again if you truly wanted it, but I wouldn't trust you again.

I've realised that I owe myself happiness. Don't get in the way.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Examinations and Dreams

They have a funny way of helping you achieve your dreams. They make you sit down and pour out all the knowledge you've miraculously managed to retain in your overcrowded memory, the facts slipping over the rim and sliding down the side like waterdrops, lost forever. I wonder if they truly see a use in it. What are they testing? What are they examining?

Foolishly, they believe that they are testing us on how much we have learnt, but this is not the case; they instead test us on the capacity of our memory. To say the least, it is not a fair system. Perhaps they should revise.

We each have dreams we aspire towards, we each desperately hope that we may achieve them; whole cups filled with little rolled up pieces of paper, upon each one, a hope penned in the neatest of handwriting, then oh so carefully rolled up into a scroll and tied closed with string. We pray to attain what is written on those tiny scrolls, but the truth is, life has a way of putting us down.

So, we go in, we write all that we can possibly remember, all that we tried to cram into our overstuffed brains, and hope for the best. The reality is, no one cares about what you learnt, what you took from your lessons. They just want to see what you remember.

The saddest thing is, at the end of it all, you will forget, purposefully, everything you tried to remember.

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Sky Turns To Shadow

Tell me fortune teller, what do you see? Is my future written in your cards? Where do I go? What happens now?

Do I end up happy?

The sky is overrun by shadows, which flit past my eyes, taunting, laughing, teasing; the ghosts of a past in ruins. I cannot help but feel that I follow the road to perdition, yet, I know that it cannot be true. Transparent though those ghosts are, they plunge their hands in me and attempt to wrench out my heart, for they know what haunts it most; they know what hurts it most.

Images flicker on screens, whole pictures painted with tiny pinpoints of colour, blended together to be something; a portrait, a scene, a message. Some images have such a hold that I cannot move away, and I watch, and my stomach clenches, flutters, trips over itself; and then, I remember that it's just an image from a scripted life. The magic is lost, the feeling fades, the image moves on. Bone crushing sadness takes me in its embrace, pulling me closer, holding me tighter, and whispering promises in my ear; promises, threats, they're all the same thing.

So I need to know. Does the loneliness ever go away?

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Hanging in the Balance

You're going to leave your life in ruins. When you hear no other voice, you listen to that of instinct, and that is what instinct whispers to you; your life will end in ruins. Can anything more be expected when your shadow is a burden and the world denies you happiness?

You can't rely on miracles, you can't rely on sunlight, you can't rely on the thoughts which spin through your mind. Planet keeps turning, your mind keeps churning; there are no answers which you don't already know. You keep walking but you can't see where you're going; the path's a black screen before you, moving with you, inch by inch. You can't go back, and you can't stay still, so you keep moving forward, terrified because you can't tell what you're walking into. And behind you all the way, are they, urging, pushing, prodding, threatening. They expect you to be independent without allowing you the chance to gain independence.

You can't rely on yourself. It seems you do nothing but wrong, leaving all in a mess, a complex knot which cannot be untied. People walk out of your life as though you meant nothing to them, and still haunt you in your dreams. Others pretend to be there for you, but turn their backs the second you need them. Of course this leaves them vulnerable to attack, but you're too moral to backstab. The rest of the world gets under your skin, pushes you to the edge, unknowing that you really could overbalance and plunge to the depths of insanity and rage, the waves of which already scorch your feet.

Time is of the essence. But time means nothing to you because you can't even live your life for yourself. It feels like you're at a standstill, and though the clock keeps ticking, it seems as though it's been still for an eternity. One second is all it takes; will you fall forward and sink into the agony of insanity and untempered anger, or take the only other path and walk parallel to the waves, leaving the rest of the world gaping in your wake?

Monday, November 1, 2010

Void Space

Unconsciousness is a surprisingly sweet escape from life, however temporary it may be. It can be said that I enjoy sleep much more than being awake, for you see, life has more of a tendency to hold together when I'm asleep; everything tends to crumble during the waking hours.

Facing things you'd rather not face is a given during the day. Problems envelop you, eat at your soul while you struggle in their grip, fighting against them for freedom. You try to hold together the pieces of yourself as you fall apart, crumbling like chalk, chipping like rock. Too soon the tears get the better of you, rolling down your face and leaving behind those tell tale paths which glisten in the light, even as you try to hide yourself in the dark.

Finally, you are left with nothing; empty spaces which used to be filled. Is there a cure for the void?